Approaching Normal
by meeeeeeeelkoooooooor
Summary: Mairon had always been the quiet one. He valued the repitition of daily life—college, homework, a bit of light reading as he pretended to listen to his roommate's gossip. But everything changed after an unlikely meeting with an even less likely superstar—and Mairon is thrust into a world of violence, drugs, and intrigue through a dark and seductive musician. Angbang / Modern AU
1. Dream Glasses Off

**WARNINGS: **Do NOT read this if you have any of various serious triggers. It's rated M for a reason. This story will cover drug abuse, alcohol abuse, depression, suicide, sexual abuse and violence, domestic abuse... the list goes on. I don't do happy endings; don't expect them. This is not meant for the faint of heart. You have been warned.

_Approaching Normal_

I

Mairon often wondered if a man like Melkor could ever have loved him. He wondered if Melkor was even capable of love, damaged as he was; but he knew without a doubt he loved him all the same, for his faults and failures. He knew he could not live without his light—or _unlight_, for he would never call such a light nor darkness. There was something beautiful there, crawling through the night.

He wondered if this was what lured sailors out into the waves and their deaths. He wondered if this was what they spoke of when they whispered the old stories of the Fae folk; not a lust, but a timeless yearning —for change. _Happiness_. A moment's reprieve before they were lured out to their deaths.

But was he happy? Would he ever be happy?

Happiness was a blessing for the strong-willed.

He had not been happy since that _day_. September 17, a little more than one year the former. He would never forget the day, regretfully circled on his calendar, glaring at him from across the room where the sun struck it just right in the mornings to make the red Sharpie glow hatefully. The day they first met—the first day in which nothing was _enough_ for him anymore. There had been such high hopes for him; who was left to hope now?

Now, in this _unlight_, without Melkor he was nothing. He was a forgotten regret, carefully erased from the lives of the greater man.

He was a man who believed firmly in second chances, and—maybe, just maybe, in another life... He would have a second chance to step away from those doors.

Would he take it, he wondered? Was it in the book for him? Or was this how it was meant to be—an endless spiral. Death begets death.

He knew how it was done. He'd seen Melkor do it, so many times, though he pretended so often that he didn't notice—and a quick googling held all of the answers that his calculating gaze had not. The only difference was that he was doing it for himself, this time. Just once.

He barely felt the prick of the needle into his skin, or the single rogue teardrop sliding from his amber eyes.

Maybe, in some other life...

_-Some day, someone_  
_Is gonna love you-  
_

2011

He'd found the only quiet room of the house—which was, ironically, the front lobby. Everyone was in the back, cutting the cake—he could hear bits and pieces of _Happy Birthday_ with Varda's name shoved into the wrong verses. They were obviously having plenty of drunken fun. He wondered how much longer 'only an hour' was going to last.

_"I'm telling you, man—you should go. It's going to be so cool. Yavanna's going to be there. Hell, even __**Namo**__ RSVP'd. You know, the creepy guy dating Vaire who works at the mortuary? That shithead never leaves his house."_

_"I... I'm not good with parties. Or people. Or anything really. You know that, Aule..."_

Of course he knew that. But it appeared Aule was too interested in impressing Yavanna, the lovely strawberry blonde who had invited them to the party in the first place. He wanted to show how great he was by getting quiet little Mairon out of the apartment for once. Mairon loved Aule as his best friend, but if his dear friend was anything, subtle was not one of his qualities.

_Aule scoffed. "You never go to parties, so how would you know that you wouldn't like it? Who knows—this could be your lucky day. You could meet a nice girl, go see the world—"_

_"I don't do the girl thing—or the world thing either. Really, you're just making this less pleasant for me." Mairon tried to retreat, but Aule gave him that don't-you-dare look he saved for these certain occasions. He realized there was as little chance of backing out of this as there was of passing his Chem final._

_"Come on, buddy," Aule's voice softened. "We've been best friends since, what, kindergarten? We're moved in together, going to college together—remember that one time that you shat yourself—"_

_"—I remember," he interrupted, deflating._

Mairon was back to stress-crocheting again. So far he had made three multicolored beanies, two scarves, five sets of arm-warmers, and a small patterned throw. This was not a good sign; and these were all certainly things he would never use. Except maybe the beanies, but that was a situational thing, and it was not like Mairon liked going outside to show off his crafting habits anyway. He would prefer the world outside of his small social circle be unaware of his hobbies. Unaware of him in general, even.

_Aule fixed him with the most painfully pleading look he'd ever seen on the tall man. His reddish brown eyebrows tilted up innocently, framing warm, desperate eyes. "Do it for me?"_

_Mairon breathed in steadily, trying to keep his cool. Aule knew he could win Mairon over like this; it always worked. Mairon was not one for abandoning friends in their time of need... even when he knew he was being manipulated. "I—alright. But just for a little bit."_

'A little bit,' as it turned out, meant he would be stuck there until midnight or later—he couldn't even remember the time, and Aule still had his Samsung from earlier, which he feared might currently be sitting at the bottom of the Iluvatars' multi-million-dollar swimming pool. The blonde sighed, tucking one of his curly locks beneath the stocking cap from whence it had escaped with a single bony-fingered hand. Light amber eyes studied the room for the umpteenth time, wondering if it was worth playing a game of Spot the Unnecessary Carvings again.

The home of famous director and producer Eru Iluvatar was as expansive as he should have expected. The opening hall was a grand mess of swirling architecture, inspired in part by the popularized style of fantasy stories and by the director's own creative mind. Mairon knew Aule was ecstatic to see the inside of the famous home, being a sculptor and an architect himself; but all Mairon found use of with it was counting the number of spirals on the massive chandelier above his head. The long bench he was seated on, while beautiful, was completely uncomfortable, and it did not help there was some sort of mystery couple passionately making out on the other end.

He was about to get up and ask again when it all went to hell.

Thinking back, Mairon could see it in a series of steps—the door flying open and heavy boots thudding on the floor; Mairon turning, surprised, and the glass of wine in his hand faltering; the moment when he lost his grip on the stem and he collided with the firm chest of the most frightening man he had ever chanced to meet—and, of course, he had just doused said man's leather jacket with the alcohol formerly in his hand.

Mairon shrank back immediately, struggling to chance a look at the dark man's face, likely livid with the rage of some sort of evil god, a dark scowl framed by cruel cheekbones and dark hair—

But when he looked, he saw not the rage of a dark creature but rather... _annoyance_. Disregard, even. The man looked not at him, with his icy blue eyes, but more so _through_ him—like he was a rat. Or a roach. A mere housepest. It unnerved him more than rage ever could.

Looking away, the dark figure sighed, and—of all things—removed his coat to hand off to a dumbfounded Mairon. "Get it cleaned," came a smooth, rich voice—it was more like a rumble, and Mairon felt a shiver course through him in that which he could not discern as fear or excitement, but something in between.

The coat draped in his arms, spilled wine seeping through the sleeve of his sweater and coating his forearm in a sticky, smelly mess. Mairon attempted to form words—but a jumbled chaos was all that he managed as the tall figure brushed right past him. Like he wasn't even there. Or he just wasn't important. From behind him, a voluptuous woman snaked by, leering at him with eyes of an intelligent, greedy brown—

"Oh—Melkor! What have you done now? This boy looks terrified—is that your coat?" Mairon flinched at the bright voice behind him. He knew that voice—their host, Manwe. The brilliant son of the esteemed Eru Iluvatar, and the current fiancé of Aule's dear friend Varda.

The dark and scary one—Melkor, his mind corrected—leered over his shoulder. "Just here to drop off your damned bike. Tell dad Gothmog's not fixing your toys for you anymore, runt. You can go take your shit to a real shop." The spidery woman behind him procured a set of keys from somewhere within her dark corset, which she wordlessly tossed over Mairon's head. He heard the sharp _clang_ as Manwe caught them.

Just like that, he was gone, sweeping out of the room and back through the front door—but not without a last-minute hesitation, fixing Mairon again with that bone-chilling steel gaze. "I expect that jacket back by the end of the week," he said threateningly. Mairon shrank back a little, nodding stupidly at the retreating figure. Casually—perhaps even jokingly—the dark woman waved behind herself, smirking through black-painted lips as they retreated into the night.

Then he was gone, and Mairon let out the breath he had no idea he'd been holding. Manwe spun him around gently, looking him over as if he were expecting to see bruises. Maybe he was. Mairon felt like he'd been attacked and degraded all the same by that gaze alone from that dark figure. "I'm sorry—Mairon, right?" At his nod, his platinum blonde host continued, "My brother is just being himself—he didn't hurt you, did he?"

"N-no," Mairon stammered. "I spilled wine on his jacket. It was an accident—"

"Don't worry; I'll take care of that for you. Leave it to Melkor to scare off my party guests..." He lifted the jacket off of Mairon's arms carefully, avoiding the spill in a way Mairon hadn't. "You don't look so good, bud—you came with Aule, right? I'll go get him and see if he can take you home."

Mairon could only nod. Manwe was astonishingly friendly—in an awkward way, as they both seemed acutely aware of Mairon's own miserable social status, but friendly nonetheless. He wasn't sure why he still felt so shaken up about the meeting. Perhaps it was the way Melkor regarded him, like he was barely there—like he was a cockroach on the wall, not even worth acknowledging if it weren't for the fact that more might come along.

"I—I do feel a little sick, I think," Mairon managed the lie with a small smile, more than eager to leave. "I would like to go."

Manwe smiled again-he was one of those people with the million-dollar grin, like they'd spent their entire life in front of a camera. "I'll go get him for you, bud. Just wait here, and—take a seat or something. You look like you could fall out at any moment."

He did just that as Manwe walked away, looking like a god among men in his fine-tailored suit and stylish haircut. This was the last time, Mairon decided, that he would get involved with these nonsense millionaire parties. Aule would have to find someone else to tag along and impress Yavanna with.

-x-

"Mairon, I've gotta know. What's he like?"

"_Who_?"

"You know—Morgoth Bauglir. The Morgoth Bauglir. Manwe's brother. I think his real name is, like—Velcro or Shelko or something crazy like that."

"_Melkor_?"

"Yeah! You've heard of him right? I mean, you can't live under a rock all the time. I heard he's a total asshole, and a junkie—that's what the tabloids say at least, so I'm not sure, and Manwe doesn't like to bring him up. But you _ran_ _right into him_! Dude!"

"_Eyes on the road_ please, Aule." The worn '96 Lexus jerked a little as Aule righted it and turned off of the 409. A scowl spread across his broad face as the woman behind them honked her horn.

"Calm down—I'm not doing anythin', crazy gal," he said to no one in particular before continuing his game of twenty questions, patting Mairon on the shoulder with one tanned hand. "Come on, man, I've gotta know. Please?"

"I don't know—I've never even heard of a Morgoth—I spilled wine on him. I think I made him mad. He didn't even really look at me though. I'm not sure..."

"Oh, yeah. Manwe said he'll take care of that jacket—I guess that's what it's all about. Good thing, too. From what I've heard that guy is worth staying far away from if ya got yourself on his bad side. Junkie bastard and all that." He looked pointedly at Mairon as they pulled up to a red light. His brown eyes were full of trust and caution—he caught Mairon's amber gaze clinically, as if he were assessing the damage the night had done to him. "Try not to go near that guy anymore, okay? Manwe was acting all shaken up, like he was afraid his bro was gonna come back and wail on you. I don't want to see some rock and roll bastard go after you—especially not someone like him, with all that fame behind him. The tabs would rip you apart. Like Rihanna, with the whole Chris Brown thing; they like to side with the bigger guy."

"I won't," Mairon agreed. "I don't want to ever meet him again. He was kind of scary. And really tall." He shivered.

Aule laughed warmly. "Mairon, hon, everyone is really tall compared to you."

Mairon scowled and pulled his stocking cap further over his golden locks in embarrassment. "Don't rub it in..." he grumbled and Aule proceeded to drop the subject at last, going into a detailed retelling of his night at the party with Yavanna, interjecting it with cases of 'I think I might have a chance now, ya know,' and 'man, I think she really _like_ likes me!' Mairon managed to tune it out pretty easily, nodding at the appropriate times and otherwise gazing thoughtfully out the window.

Through all of the intimidation, the degradation—Mairon still couldn't get those eyes of icy cobalt out of his mind. Those _eyes_... and when he finally made it back to their hole-in-the-wall apartment over by campus, finally managed to wander his way into his room and collapse onto his bed, they were all he could dream about, sending thrilled shivers down his spine as they regarded him coldly. There was something alluring about them... something chaotic. And it frightened Mairon, more than anything else.

Morning came, and he felt that maybe he'd never have to worry about that chance meeting again. But as sunlight streamed through his window, painting his room in a delicate white, he felt somehow that things were about to change. Whether this was a good or a bad thing was still up for question.

He was frightened by that.

-x-

**/note: **hello minions. told you i was writing a thing. didn't say it was going to be a jolly endeavor. you guys were pretty unanimous asking for the modern au and, well, in all honesty this behemoth has been in the works for a very long time. im happy to present it to you. please don't kill me.

coming next: we will have a notably longer second chapter now that we've passed the juxtaposition nonsense. Mairon encounters Manwe again. Things ensue. We get to see our favorite dark lord and resident rockstar for a second time.


	2. Rattlesnake

II  
_Rattlesnake_

x

Life was good—or as good as it could be—for Mairon Gorthaur. His life was on repetition each week, as he attended Art History lectures and attempted his Chemistry homework. The sun rose, the days were warm, and then the sun set and the nights were cool. People scurried about their daily lives, couples fought loudly next door to his cramped apartment, and smog warnings encouraged him to keep the windows closed and not allow his beloved orange persian, Frederick, out onto the windowsills to keep from damaging his fragile lungs.

He didn't have to think about any Morgoth Bauglirs—or whatever Aule called him—for several days after that. That gaze still haunted him, but he could throw it back into a distant memory, like the party had never happened. He went about his normal business like always, going to class and studying quietly while Aule gushed about his date-but-not-a-date to happen on Saturday with his current obsession of Yavanna. Sometimes, he set up on the roof and painted from there, pouring out his thoughts into a surrealistic take on the cityscape and not daring to think of any cobalt eyes or voices of smooth, dark velvet.

This changed on Thursday, when he made it back from classes at lunch time and saw a white-blonde figure standing at his apartment door. Manawenuz Sulimo, the golden child of the great Iluvatar family, looked painfully out-of-place in the dirty complex, clad in his crisp suit and with a fancy garment bag draped over his arm, emblazoned with "EFFREY'S" on one side. He bit his lip as he wondered with embarrassment just how much Manwe spent on getting that coat cleaned—probably more than Mairon had ever seen—and why he was here now, with said coat in arm.

He spun elegantly as Mairon approached, blonde eyebrows arched. "There you are! I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to impose, if you have classes or anything." His voice was as warm and inviting as always, his light blue gaze trained on Mairon's skinny frame.

"Um—it's fine," Mairon shuffled his feet, running a hand through his curly golden-yellow hair and wishing he'd worn one of his caps today to hide under. "I—sorry—I just got out of class, if you've been waiting...are you looking for Aule?"

Manwe shook his head, and Mairon felt a pang of horrible anxiety. "Actually," Manwe explained softly, feeling the fright radiating off of the boy, "I went to have Melkor's coat delivered, and he wouldn't have it. He said he'll only take it from you—the one who, and I quote, '_fucked it up_'." He frowned sourly. "I'm so sorry, Mairon..."

For a moment, Mairon thought he might cry. The thought of seeing that man again—it both thrilled and horrified him. He remembered Aule's advice to avoid him if possible—and he felt for a minute like a traitor. But what had to be done, had to be done; Manwe obviously came all of the way out here to find him.

"What..." he swallowed, "what do I need to do?"

"I'll take you to his flat, get you in—don't worry, he's not too bad in small doses. I doubt he'd hurt you when he knows I know you. He just wants you to bring his coat. I guess it's some kind of payback or something—I don't know. I'll never really understand him." Manwe smiled comfortingly, and Mairon felt a bit of his anxiety ease. Manwe was one of those sorts of people, he decided, who were innately kind and helpful; perhaps that was where his popularity stemmed. A natural leader, Aule had called him once. Probably going to become president or something one day. Aule didn't talk about that sort of thing lightly. Mairon understood now what he meant.

He didn't speak much as Manwe led him out of his drab apartment complex and to a waiting car with a price tag Mairon would have balked at, ushering him into the backseat as he directed the driver toward a flat downtown. Mairon continued in silence as the journey commenced, nodding occasionally as Manwe attempted small-talk. He was so alarmingly friendly and approachable that Mairon felt his own nervous wall slowly being chipped away.

"You're so small," Manwe mused. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Um—nineteen." As of August. It was now September. He wasn't going to mention that. Even then, he was short and thin compared to the common populace. He got the 'the middle school is that way' joke far too many times a week. There was no way he looked _that _young—but standing at a short 5'5" and 120 pounds in a sea of giants was not easy in the least. "My family is all short..." he explained belatedly, hoping it could be left there. His mother always rambled on about how he never ate enough, and that was why he was small—and tried to shove casseroles and pot pies and goulashes his way at any given interval now, as if she thought her adult son was going to hit a sudden growth spurt.

"Wow," Manwe mused, breaking him of his thoughts. "I'm sorry—you probably get a lot from people about that—about looking young and all. It's not a bad thing to retain your youth."

"It's not a problem..." Mairon managed nervously. "I—I'm okay with my height. It gets me free meals at the restaurants sometimes, when I can get Aule to pass as my big brother." Manwe smiled warmly at that. To Mairon's relief, he quieted again then, breaking the silence only to fiddle with the radio and chat with the burly driver, who proved to be a friend of his by the name of Tulkas.

The car wove its way through the streets, moving further and further downtown as Mairon sank into the expensive leather of the seat and tried not to notice the garment bag beside him or think about what he had to do. The thought of facing that man again...would he be harmed? Aule had seemed so uncomfortable about him...

Manwe had all sorts of minor chatter to distract him through the drive, talking about work and law school and his beloved fiancee, Varda—and Mairon drifted off, gazing thoughtfully out at the city traffic and wondering if he'd be back in time to give Frederick his dinner, or if he'd have to feed the chubby orange persian later in the evening, resulting in the cat's angriest protesting yowls for being off schedule. Perhaps Aule had made it back from work early again, and fed the cat while Mairon was out, assuming that he'd gone out with friends—friends that, of course, had failed to so much as speak to him since the fiasco with Eonwe.

When the car pulled to a halt, deftly parking in a spot parallel to the street, Mairon saw that the were near the riverfront. Here mills once stood, churning their wheels through the water and spewing smoke into the air, staining many of the old buildings throughout old downtown with the dark charcoal of the age of industry; now, most of them had been replaced with fine high-rises or polished until their bricks practically shone, the finest of the surviving mills rennovated into meeting places, inner-city lofts, and fancy restaurants. Such was the plight of the industrial age; now a popular place for a fancy shindig with an old-town twist, or a fine location for a wealthy youth to make into their new living space.

Mairon's stomach knotted as Manwe beckoned for him to leave the light tan leather comfort of the vehicle's interior. This was it. He breathed deeply, bracing himself for whatever he would face on the other side of the red brick walls. He wondered if he could explain himself out of a black eye, beg for forgiveness, perhaps even let the entire atmosphere of Earth disppear, dragging them all out into space as their insides expand out of their pores and they cry soundless screams, dying before he ever had to face the mysterious Melkor again.

The latter was less likely. He deemed it barely plausible and decided not to rely on such false hopes.

Manwe led him through massive, heavy mill doors, propped open in the pleasant September air, then through another set of much smaller doors and into a lobby. Mairon felt his nerves bubble up again. He could just look at it to know—the polished wooden rafters, the massive bubbling waterfall, the ancient but gleaming floors—Melkor had money. Plenty of it. He had the kind of money to live in a massive and high-rate spot of realty value like this one. He'd seen it in magazines before, or maybe on HGTV where they continued on about upper-class condomeniums and houses.

At the front desk, a young woman—not much older than Mairon, he mused—had her lace-up boots propped up on the desk, idly smoking a cigarette despite the blaring "NO SMOKING" sign at the front of the fine lobby. As she heard the footsteps of approaching guests, she quickly readjusted herself, straightening up properly in her chair and lowering her cigarette as she smoothed out her dark ponytail, a light blush dancing across her rounded, pale face.

"Welcome to Angband," she called in a thick Southern twang that shocked Mairon at first, then reminded him vaguely of an uncle from central Alabama that he'd once met, "finest riverside lofts in—_hey, _what are ye doin'—you ain't allowed in here! Fuck off! You know the rules—no guest list, no buggin' the big man—"

"Good afternoon, Tanya." Manwe sounded oddly chipper.

"It's _Thuringwethil,_" The waspy woman ground the end of her cigarette into a near-dust on the countertop.

"How does your mother feel about that name?—I'm not here to see my brother either way." Manwe smiled a cruelly bright smile that left Mairon intimidated. It was in the curve of the blonde man's eyebrows—a certain sinister gleam that broke through his fair, proud exterior. Cruelty ran in the family, Mairon thought belatedly, and was immediately glad not to be at the receiving end of Manwe's anger.

"What are ye doin' here, then—with that lil' slip of a boy, just lookit. Oh, I could eat ya right up, cutie—c'mere." Mairon instinctively ducked back as one of Tanya—_Thuringwethil'__s _strong arms reached out toward him. Cooing at her miss in her dark Southern twang, she looked him over again and her eyes lit up with recognition. "Yeoww! Yer the one the Merr-goth's been waitin' fer, right? Damn, he's sayin' right 'bout you bein' a sweet one—just lookit them dimples—smile fer me, won't ya hunny?"

Mairon managed a halfhearted smile while Manwe moved before him in a manner he could only describe as _protective. _Thuringwethil tutted quietly and popped a stick of gum into her red-lipped mouth as Manwe demanded again to have the garment in Mairon's arms delivered.

"Not you," she said, extending a bony finger at Manwe as she loudly poppe a bubble in her gum. Turning her hand to Mairon, her smile sweetened. "Just him. Doc's orders. I ain't havin' him comin' right down here in half an hour askin' fer all of my dope. He don't ever wanna see yer ugly giddup anyway, you stinkin' pratter."

Manwe leered at her, his trained smile faltering. Mairon wondered then how false his smile may be; but he flushed it quickly out of his mind. Manwe had shown kindness to him thus far, and it was not his place to analyse him. Thuringwethil met his gaze, and to Mairon they appeared to be exchanging some sort of inner battle; then her face brightened as she turned her hungry gaze back to him, smiling in a way that was all too sugar-sweet.

"Up the stairs to your left, hon," she instructed in an overly warm tone. "I'mma buzz you up real quick. Unit 2."

With a last look at Manwe for reassurance, he gripped the bag tightly in his skinny arms and made for the aforementioned archway—made of huge, dark wooden planks with dim modern lighting. It was unclear if this was intended to be welcoming or threatening, as the lights cast pale shadows onto his face. The sooner he made it through this, the better.

The door on the second-floor landing was hard to miss; big and dark wood just like the rest of the once-mill, worn like the massive floorboards under his sneakers. He felt again his anxiety, his social phobias raising up within him like a dark wraith, clawing at his innards and telling him _run, run before he kills you, you clumsy fuck—_

It took him a few minutes before he managed a tentative knock.

A few moments more, then from the other side—an echoing voice. "It's unlocked," called someone that could be none other than Melkor. But he sounded different today. From the same timbre that offered icy regards before was a warmer welcome, not necessarily friendly but not horrible either. Like the color red, Mairon thought. The edge was there but unused.

He turned the knob and opened the door.

The interior of Melkor's flat shouldn't have come as a surprise to Mairon; it was an industrial style, being that of a remodeled mill, all dark wooden beams and brick and pale plaster. Ahead of him was a group of three grand arched mill-windows behind a comfortable seating area, overlooking the glittering and lazily flowing river, and beyond that busy streets and storefronts, with massive dark floor-to-cieling curtains tied back to let in the afternoon sun. To his right—an expensive kitchen stocked with glistening granite counters and the latest appliances, fine enough to make Mairon picture himself cooking there, fixing up a classic French dish as he hadn't made since he still lived with his mom—

"You can put the coat on the counter," came a casual order that broke Mairon's reverie. Past the kitchen was a smooth arch in the plaster wall, and standing haphazardly on a latter with a paintbrush in hand was Melkor.

For a minute, Mairon could barely believe this was the same person he'd seen a few days before. He looked too shockingly _domestic;_ with a pair of old paint-smudged jeans and a matching oversized tee, his dark hair piled into a messy hairclipped bun, he was a picture of the chaotic artistic mind. He labored over a half-finished red monstrosity of a great dragon, weaving its way over to the top of the arch and spitting fire from its shining nostrils and sharp-toothed maw. Mairon was for a minute captivated by his work, which seemed so delightfully alive, like it might peel its way from the wall and flit about the room, setting fire to the curtains and furniture as it went about its destructive business.

"..._or _you could keep staring—yeah, that's fine too." Mairon shook his head and blushed. What was he doing?—the artistic whimsy of the financial elite was none of his business.

"S-sorry," he stammered, his sweaty grip tightening on his cargo. He walked—_waddled, _more like, or perhaps _shuffled—_to the front counter, dividing the kitchen from the living area, and gingerly placed the Effrey's bag on top of it. "I—" he swallowed, "I like your painting. Of the dragon."

"Thanks," came a muffled response. The ladder creaked precariously as its occupant climbed down, paintbrush in mouth. When his feet hit the ground he took it and tossed it into a cup of water sitting by his work area. "I like it too. Had a big fire monster taking up that wall but—it was getting old. I wanted something new. It kept reminding me of my manager—kind of freaky, right?"

Mairon marveled first at how Melkor so easily destroyed his work—was he not insinuating that he _painted over something else _like that? Mairon hated letting any of his work go to waste. He still had a box of his mothers saved away, filled with old-but-failed oil paintings that he didn't have the heart to get rid of, even if he didn't like them. Painting over his work was only something done in desperation.

Melkor eyed the garment bag and grumbled. "Effrey's," he joked. "Shoulda known. Pretentious shit—he knows the owners hate me, so he's just _got_to use them, huh?" He made his way over to the fridge, and before Mairon could protest, a beer was being thrust at him with a grunted "here," offered in a way that was more demanded than asked before the dark-haired man grabbed one of his own, leaning across the bar and reminding Mairon of just how _tall _he was.

"Don't look at me like that." Mairon flinched, feeling the command in Melkor's deep voice. "So fucking apologetic. Do you know why I wanted you to bring this back yourself?"

Mairon shrugged. "I—I'm really sorry about—"

"This isn't about you being a clumsy little brat." His cobalt eyes deepened to a darker shade. "This is about taking care of business. You—_you__—_were asked to do something. Something reasonably simple. Clean the mess you made. I wouldn't have cared if you threw the damn jacket in the washing machine and ruined it; I can get another one. It's not like that's the last leather in the world. It's not even my favorite. The problem—" he leered at Mairon and he remembered again the commanding aura from that night at the party, "—is that you let _Manwe _fix this for you. Manwe is the most vindictive piece of shit you will ever meet, kid—take that to heart." At Mairon's confusion, he grinned. "My brother is a big, nasty pidgeon posing as an eagle. Now you owe him a favor, see—think ahead. Try about twenty years. You've got a career, a wife and a few kids—then _bam_, Manwe shows up. He wants to collect for that one time he helped you out when you were at a party. He wants twenty thousand dollars, because he's been calculating interest this whole time—and you're just a middle-class joker. Your car doesn't even cost that much. You can't fork it up. He sues you for everthing you're worth—bang, now you're broke. You're on the streets. You turn to the bottle. Now you're a wine-o junkie with liver cancer. And he's still got that toothy fucking grin on his face."

"He—he seems pretty nice to me," Mairon protested.

Melkor laughed. "Just wait," he promised. "Just you fucking wait. He's the sleaziest little brat on the planet. No wonder he wants to become a lawyer—when you sue enough people, you get to where you want to be the one doing the suing. Crowned king of the media _and _king of the law. Now he might as well just run for fuckin' president because everyone who he hasn't wronged yet is in love with him." Melkor's eyes lit up with a determined fire, gleaming dangerously. "That'd be a good song. I should write it—_Manwe Is a Dick and America Is Fucked_. The musical. Bet the producers would fall in love."

Mairon let him continue babbling enthusiastically, describing his new inspiration with single-arm gestures as he took a drink from his beer. Mairon looked down at the one he'd had thrust upon him. It was only polite to at least attempt to drink some of it—as he didn't seem to be in any kind of position at the moment to leave, without inciting some of the well-hidden anger he'd seen at the party before. Melkor was a large man; he didn't want to be on the receiving end of any of his potentially violent ways. He saw him in his mind as he had on that Saturday, piercings weaving their way up his ears under a thick curtain of bone-straight hair, fists clenched, tattoos snaking their way up his strong arms—he could never best Melkor in a fight. He didn't even want to try. His mind, mathematical by nature, knew the odds.

But his mind cleared and he saw this Melkor—alarmingly domestic, in a paint-smeared old shirt, lacking half of the spikes and gauges and loops in his ears; even his tattoos looked like they were happier, in the warm afternoon lighting streaming in from massive mill windows. His hair was a scrambled mess in a big, alarmingly girlish clip.

Remembering again the alcohol in his hand (and Melkor's near-expectant glance), he took a tentative sip. The beer was too dark, too bitter—it slid down his throat, leaving the heavy and overwhelming taste of hops in his mouth. He didn't like it, but he resisted the urge to scowl—perhaps he could get away with not touching the beer any more. Melkor drank it like it was water; he wondered how. Some people, he figured, liked the dark stuff—Aule always complained about Mairon and his 'girly drinks.' Mairon would spit back that he was underage anyway, so why should he be drinking anything in the first place? Might as well be his girly drinks. Aule always laughed then, and threw his arms around Yavanna or Varda or Nienna or whoever else was nearby and insisted they sing a song or do a reasonless toast to whatever he found interesting at that time.

"Sorry again," he managed tentatively, looking at a spot in the stainless steel of the fridge instead of Melkor's weighty gaze. "About the coat and, uh, Manwe."

"I told you," Melkor rolled his eyes, "don't be. And don't ask Manwe to do your favors for you—Sauron, right?"

"_Mairon_, actually—"

"Yeah, Mairon-Sauron-whatever, don't trust Manwe. Be careful with him—I don't even know what Varda sees in him. She dated me first, you know?—said I was too volatile, or something. I don't know. She's an idiot. She just wants at the Iluvatar fortune—bet she'll be putting the moves on my old man next." He laughed to himself. Mairon found he couldn't laugh with him. It was odd, that this dark and rude man knew his friends as he apparently did. If Varda could be considered a friend—a friend of a friend, perhaps. He wasn't fond of considering any of them particularly friendly. They were too close to his old circle. He remembered how things happened before—how everyone turned their backs on him the moment they saw fit. And _Curumo_—what a nightmare he'd been—

_"No, Mairon—what the fuck—that's just sick. You're a fucking perv—stay away from me. I swear, I'm gonna tell everyone—knew you were a freak this whole time—"_

"...I should go." Mairon frowned. "Um—thanks for the drink."

Melkor watched him curiously, raising one handsome eyebrow. "Something wrong, kid? You look sick."

Mairon shouldered past him, head down. He didn't like to dwell on such negative thoughts. No—Aule's crowd was different. That was why he got back up with him, right? They were different. He wouldn't be the clown he became by his senior year of high school. But sometimes he felt that paranoia, and it was hard to ignore. "I'm fine," he managed. "I just need to leave now. Thank you, really—for not beating me up and all too. Sorry about your jacket."

Melkor gave up on his inquiry quickly, backing up from behind him and moving to pull out a cigarette. "No problem, kid." He turned around, already engrossed again in his work. Mairon wondered idly how often he saw guests like this.

To someone like Melkor, he figured, he was probably just another face. But he feared he would have a harder time flushing Melkor out of his mind now.

x

_-runnin', runnin', runnin' rattle behind me-_


End file.
